


London Tower

by significantowl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Community: summerpornathon, Ghosts, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is a ghost in the Tower of London, and Arthur's been ruined for kissing the living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Tower

Arthur walks straight into the Tower of London, no queuing. He's got himself a membership by now, and why not? He's always been passionate about the past, remembering it, honouring it, preserving it. At this hour, most tourists are on their way out; it’s far too near the end of the day to see everything. But there’s just one particular part Arthur’s here to visit, and as he makes his way to the Salt Tower, anticipation prickles in his blood.

Inside is a twisting stone staircase, leading straight up. Arthur’s breathing hard by the time he reaches the top and steps out into the bare, round chamber. There’s no furniture, and the main feature of interest is the walls, covered in centuries upon centuries of prisoners’ graffiti.

Arthur doesn’t shiver. Never does. There’s never any chill creeping over his skin, nor cold settling into his bones. He isn’t sure if popular culture has got ghosts wrong in general, or if it’s just something about Merlin.

Merlin is the warmth pressing into Arthur now, spreading from his chest down to his toes. He’s nothing that Arthur can see, but Arthur still knows him, inside and out.

“Hello,” Arthur says. He’s smiling like a fool, he knows. Something he doesn’t really do outside this room, but it’s safe here, between them.

“Hi,” Merlin says, into his head. To anyone watching, it would look like Arthur's talking to himself, but no-one's going to see; Merlin takes care of the security cameras, just like he takes care of the lock on the door. There’s a touch, just under Arthur’s ear, and another, and another, all along the line of his jaw. Merlin’s a relentless nuzzler, and Arthur, who has never been terribly good at loving softly and gently, has found himself addicted. 

“So what’s the count?” Arthur asks. He reaches out and feels shoulders, rounded and firm - still invisible, but more solid by the instant, the more contact Merlin has with Arthur’s body. “How many tourists did you terrorise today?”

“I don’t terrorise,” Merlin says. Arthur raises a thumb to find and trace Merlin’s affected pout. “I give them an authentic Tower experience.”

“Of course you do.” Arthur follows his thumb with his lips, and bites at Merlin’s until he feels heat slide inside his mouth. Merlin has ruined him for kissing the living, strange but true; no-one alive has ever come close to taking Arthur apart like this, and he’s no longer interested in giving anyone the chance to try.

Once, early on, when Merlin’s touch on Arthur’s cock had been little more than a vague, teasing warmth, before Merlin had been able to project fingers to circle it with, a thumb to rub over his slit, Arthur had thought about that heat and asked, “Were you burnt at the stake?”

Merlin, accepting of Arthur’s complete lack of tact even then, had hummed and said, “Last time I remember, I was beheaded.”

It was awhile before Arthur saw the gaps in that answer, and considered the implications of _the last time_. He thinks about it again now as he kisses down Merlin’s neck - unmarred, no gruesome scar under his lips, just the warm, firm feeling of skin. It’s easy to imagine blood beating underneath it, picture how it might bruise when he worries one spot with his teeth and lips.

History repeats. He's studied it, he knows. Things happen, and sometimes they happen again.

Merlin’s going for Arthur’s belt, Arthur sees the leather slipping through the buckle, pulled by invisible hands. Arthur would be happy enough to let him, but as he’s got something of a goal, he turns them both, pulling until Merlin’s back is against the wall.

Then he drops down, knees to the stone floor, hands running down Merlin’s body. Merlin’s cock is already hard, and it pulses when Arthur palms it. While his fingers circle the base, he rubs his cheek against Merlin’s tip, and _yes_. Yes, that was a sound like a head hitting the wall.

Arthur looks up. He can’t see Merlin’s eyes, but he loves that Merlin can see his. Deliberately, he licks out with his tongue, and he’s sure for a moment that the wall in front of him is a little blurry, a little hard to see clear.

He grips Merlin’s hips, and takes his cock all the way in.

In front of him on the wall, eye level, is a particular piece of writing, messily carved. Arthur can read it easily now; on a good night, it’ll be too clouded before they’re done, a vague shape obscuring it.

On a perfect night, the one he’s working towards, Arthur won’t be able to read a word of it; will recite it instead, from memory, into the curve of Merlin’s ear - rather large, he predicts, based on how it’s felt under his lips.

_Hated by many kings, but loved by one_ , Arthur will say. _Once, future, always._


End file.
